


Because I could not stop for Death-

by Mango_the_lemon_fox



Category: Dream SMP - (Fandom), Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Suicide, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Swearing, Techno and Wilber are brothers, Trans Floris | Fundy, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot-centric, daily updates!, heed the tags, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_the_lemon_fox/pseuds/Mango_the_lemon_fox
Summary: It took two slashes of Phil’s sword to kill Wilber,what if he could only bring himself to do one?Aka, Wilber survives being stabbed by Phill and has to face the world he was so bent to destroy(Title from a poem by Emily Dickinson of the same name)
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Tommyinnit & Wilber Soot
Comments: 9
Kudos: 160





	1. Among Copper and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I’ve had the idea for a fic like this for awhile so here it is! I’ve already got all of the plot points mapped out and will update daily till it’s finished!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even while bedridden Wilber still manages to commit property damage

There isn’t any oil left in the lamp, the chain rocking back and forth over an inky sea, pools flooding through the mouse sized canyon in the floor as streams bubble out across the cobble tundra, making rounds around the little mushrooms and beetle corpses that litter meadows of dust and gunpowder. 

A hand reaches out, grasping the glass of the lamp, palms becoming stained in a black sweat that folds and sticks to the yellowed glass, it opens the small door that leads to the waxy candle that’s been molded over where the medal wick sticks out of the burnt iron. 

The man extends an inky hand into a pile of discarded beer bottles, and various medal parts, pulling out a matchbox. (The box is a murky grey, with a black and red flag drawn across the cover.) He snaps a match across the strip of friction on the box's side, ramming the faint light against the wick of the candle, and cramming the door of the lamp shut. He snuffs out the match before abandoning it in the dark pool on the cold stone floor.

The room, now accompanied by the light, comes into faint focus. It’s carved out of sharp stone, with various wrinkles and spots of granite. There’s an old bed pushed up against the backside, an old white and red quilt hanging from a beat up mattress and bony frame. A desk clings to one of the sides, piled with rubble and swords, a bundle of arrows, and a few potatoes that look slightly worse for wear.

“Will..?” It’s sharp, unusually sharp, pulling the lichen lined walls into hot focus, the man realizes he’s trapped, watching as the light glints across his teammates face, toying with those frightened, wet eyes. Tommy fiddles with his hands, biting his lip, “I-“ he’s thinking of something to say, something to scream, something, something..

The man, Wilber, runs a hand through his hair, he hasn’t brushed it properly in days, letting it forum into a growing madness of curls and knots, “You're not stopping me, Tommy.”

“But, we- we built L’Manburg...and you just-you can’t just blow it up, it’s our home-and we got exiled but-you and I we built it..and..you-“ he looks exhausted, bags under his eyes, wrinkles in his shirt, shoes on the wrong feet. 

“Tommy, it’s really all so simple, your right! I built L’Manburg, so I have to go down with it. It’s only fair isn't it?” Wilbers voice sizzles like wet wood in a bonfire.

“But- no!..no! That’s not fair, that’s, no! You can’t just..we can take it back, when dream...when he-we didn't give up then! We can- we have to take it back Will!” The boy yells, starting to shake with some mix of fury and desperation. 

“No, Tommy..” Wilber sighs, reaching out to place a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, causing him to flinch back.”We can’t.” Wilber looks over at the lamp, hot wax dripping out, the candle is nearly spent. He then looks back at Tommy, and can nearly hear the words falling out of his lips- “Whatever happens out there, we won’t let Dream win..”- He can feel the feather of his pen as he stayed up all night scribbling out the declaration, he can see that look in Erets eyes-

“Remember Tommy…what I said when we first founded L’Manburg...?” Tommy looks at the floor, “Independence…” he looks over at the boxes of explosives stacked up at his bedside, “or death.”

There was something terrible about the way he awoke, the way it slid over him like a subtle breeze, or the silent calmness of a drawn out stroke across the back of a kitten, the gentle burst of motion into all his limbs, all...except the spinning dizziness his felt in his stomach, a gaping infinity, that if he moved, if he pried into, if he pulled off the covers to unveil, would swallow him whole.

Maybe, he wanted to fall into it, to escape that soft sound of his shirt tearing against cold iron, the hot cut as he felt his skin fall open, blood burn as it soaked his shirt, the smell, god...the smell of death...blood..it was coppery, metallic.

-he’d learned that a long time ago. When he still dressed in overalls and flung around a wooden sword. Up in those cedar lined mountains. He’d practice for hours upon hours, slashing at broken branches and those bushy berry thickets till his hands were red from the cold and his pants were wet with mud. 

“Techno, let’s duel, again..you won’t be so lucky this time.” But he was, he was always lucky, he was lucky enough to be Phil’s favorite, he took a swing, wooden sword slashing at his brothers snout, to be the cooler brother, Tecno slid back pulling the dull side of his axe in front of him like a shield, to be the better fighter, Wilber stumbled back from the impact of his sword hitting technos axe, falling on his back.

“Do you give up..?” The Piglin snorted, his hooves sliding firm, but gently across the pine needle cluttered ground.

“I don’t want to win fights with weapons…”

“Are you sure that’s not just something a loser would say..?” He motioned undecernably toward a small cut on his brother's arm, a few beats of blood pricking his pale skin. “Cause it’s ok to lose sometimes you know.” Copper. everything smelled like copper. Like the alloy-y scent of his fathers workshop.

“Will?” There was tea nearby, at least the notion of it, somewhere in the corner of his blurry vision, waiting for him, luring him out of the void he continued to ascend. Telling him to pretend, to play the sick kid who just needed some soup and chamomile, for his father to sit by his bed and hold his hand, to read through the cards and flowers that piled up on the coffee table in the corner of the room he was becoming more and more aware of as the days passed by. It was the tea Phill brought, that Will was sure was his way of telling him to stop, at least for a moment, being the villian who blew up his nation, who tried to kill all his friends, who he’d run a sword through. 

But he had never had much of a affinity for theatre, instead he reached out, as he had done for the past few weeks and felt the hot mug burn against his palm, before attempting to slowly pull it towards himself, only for him to lose his grasp, as he always lost it, and it for it to fall as it always did, ceramic splintering across the wood floor. 

“Will!” He hoped eventually, Phill would run out of mugs.

Tubbo came to visit. That was a statement that shuffled around Willbers mind for awhile, longer than the apologies Phill would whisper beneath his breath, or the curses Tommy would come spurt at him every so often, or even the sound of bombs that plagued his dreams.

He had on his suit, his blonde hair falling down in its usual disorder, some red patches hanging in the soft shadows cast from his strangely bold expression. 

Wilber simply lay, in helpless motionless, watching as the world, the one he hated so much, the one full of so many traitors, so many wars, the one that oozed with the copper odor of death, and waited, waited for that 

-horrible feeling that crossed Tubbos eyes when he first caught Wilbers, for in that moment he confirmed what he and Wilber already knew, that the man who built L’manburg, the one he’d still held on to hope to find, was nothing more than a ghost, as in this breathing, living body, their nation's founder had already died. 

“You made me president, Wilber.” He stated, letting his fists fall weakly as his whole forum fell into the desperation of a man without a leader. He was president, as he had said, as did all the documents, all of the nation who were out building back their country, all of the world...but he wasn’t in charge, his presidency after all was merely another instruction, another command he was still desperate to follow. That’s why he was here, Wilber thought wistfully, to ask for the next order of a dead man

Maybe this is what war does to children, it raises them. It raises them to follow the advice of gunshots and the lessons of sword wounds, and the guidance of traitors. 

“Phill, why didn’t you finish the job..” was the first thing Wilber spoke after the three weeks he spent laying in that lofty bed, the one with the light blue sheets, and the little cyan quilt that hung off the side, just above the dust and light sprawled floor. Of course Phill wasn’t in the room, or anywhere in sight, Wilber wasn't sure he could ever speak to him, he could barely look at him without wanting to burst into flame with fury.

But..when he was alone, staring up at the ceiling, with those increasingly web cluttered oak beams, and that stain where occasionally drops of rain would trickle from, merely muttering his darkness name made him feel unfathomably terrified. His muscles twisting as he resisted the urge to run as fast as he could stumble, to beg and scream for his life, to hide in the empty, endless space that still hung in the pit of his stomach.

Then the door slid open.

“I’m-I couldn’t do it..” the voice drawles as footsteps approached his bed. It was like he was once again the little boy who hid under the covers after turning out his lights, who would always worry if the thumping down the stairs was his father or a beast coming to drag him off into the night...something in that moment made him surer than he’d ever been...that this was the monster…”The..moment my sword, the blood…I.. couldn’t kill my own son!”

It was the fourth week that Wilber decided to learn how to walk. “Before he learns to speak!” Phill had joked to Tommy who stood silently watching as he helped his son get to his feet, supplying him some wood crutches made from the surrounding redwood trees, as it was a bit too painful for him to stand up straight. 

He finally could stumble out of that cold room, into the small living room and through the silent kitchen, out into the world that was being built all over again. 

Feel the bullet littered mud under his boots, gaze across the platforms being built out the crater that was slowly filling with spring rain, ignore the glances of a nation, he’d swore died so many months ago, maybe he could see himself in that, he and L’manburg..both dead men still walking. 

He wandered for a while, looking at the beginnings of houses and market vendors, watching the shadows of a war never won scurry past him with crates of bread and fruit, hanging red, white, blue flags from lampposts, and recounting the mishaps of a long days work.

Though eventually, he made it to the new town square it was half scaffolding half newly laid planks, with a simple bench looking off into the cloudy distance. There he met with that crimson coat, the one that rivaled sunsets, and those starry black eyes that battled for their place in the night sky. His son, he looked as lost as he did when he was still wrapped up in his mothers arms..eer fins? As innocent as when he received his first bow, it looked so big in his small claws. And as heartbroken as when he couldn’t wipe the blood off his fur as they waited in the caravan for Dream to decide their fate. 

“I don’t want to talk, Will.” The fox said his ear twitched, he was lying, eyes transfixed on the floor. 

So for a moment there they stood, the ghost of a revolutionary and the son of a traitor stuck at an impasse. 

“You never were a follower, my son.” 

After that day, Wilber stopped walking, but he definitely didn’t stop speaking. Whenever Phill would bring him tea or bread, a second blanket, he would berate him, tell him he had failed everyone by not killing him, yell till his lungs went numb 

...then on the loneliest nights, when the air prickled with the coming summer heat and various birds would sing to the moon, he would apologize, in subtle looks and strained whispers. 

He stopped breaking Phil’s mugs.

Occasionally he’d even speak to Tommy, the boy who always found some excuse to hang around his room, “Oh, Phil..he uh, wants my advice on if he should redo the flooring, I’m not here to see YOU Wilber…” he would grumble, or the old “Tubbo wants to know if you’ve died”, Wilber new that one was a lie, Tubbo already knew he had. 

“How is the building going..?” Wilber whispered.

“It’s ok...umm we're building a stage area, for like Tubbo to give speeches and stuff..” 

“He was always good at those.”

“Yeah.” 

It was such a difference tone then the first few weeks, then the boy who’d fling himself through the door in a tear stained shirt and knotted blond hair, “What the fuck Wilber!” He’d yell, “I fucking, trusted you...I thought…. You bitch! Why did...I didn’t...you just blew it all up, had to ruin it, we had won, I thought, we had won it back!”, “I hate you Wilber, I hate you and your damn 'chekhov's gun’...I wish Phill had finished the job!”-

This Tommy was subdued, distant, lost in his head, he was all, “How..your eer stomach Wilber” and “I brought you some cards so..you can play some solitaire or whatever boring people do with these.” Wilber hated this Tommy, hated those stupid long sad looks, the grieving that melted into his words, the pity that lurked in the way he stood hanging in the doorway, always gazing anywhere but at his former president. It made him feel like a living man trapped in a glass casket.

Wilber told Phill he didn’t want Tommy to visit anymore. 

“So, you really blew it all up?” That was the moment Wilber came to the realization Eret was really standing beside his bed, in his red silk robes and gold plated crown, that his low voice was really hanging in the air like a rock tying down a kite. 

Wilber of course didn’t respond, didn’t even bother to turn to look at him, as if he dared he was sure he’d see that same flicker in the lenses of those jet black glasses, the one he saw on the day he really was sure he mastered loosing, he’d practiced dueling with Technoblade, observed the art as raised his younger brother in the wake of a absent father, but as he tasted that hint of copper laying on the floor of that cursed room, Eret and Dream walking away shoulder to shoulder, he’d internalized the words every letter. 

“I’m surprised..that’s not something the Wilber I fought under would do.” 

“Betraying his fellow revolutionaries...that’s not something the Eret I trained with would do.” Wilber laughed.

“Very well.” Eret sighed. 

“You were right though..” Wilber sighed .

“What do you mean?”

Wilber stared out the foggy window at L’manburg, his L’manburg, wooden limbs forcing their way out of the crater, like a zombie rising from its grave. 

“It was never meant to be.”


	2. Foundations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter this time since the next one is going to be really long

There are moments Wilber would forget, out on the pyre that overlooked the water that clung to L’manburgs south, gazing upon the waves that swam off into the river that ran from their border through to the greater lands of the dream smp, carrying with sweet messages of sea salt and sunny depths. Watching as it bobbed ever so gently up against the various boats that clung to the old dock.

Or when he’d pace the bruised earth where the black and yellow walls used to tower up from, reaching out into harrowing rocky towers and dark pointy cascades, his crutches pointing out the mud that used to ground them, like the stick of a blind man stumbling around looking to find the nation he’d loathed through those endless months, carving out the walls of that damp ravine-

Even in Pogtopia, on his fateful visit, as he ran his hand along the sulfur covered walls, letting his fingers loll on the smooth edges of the buttons that pulsated, out, tauntingly daring for him to ram his fist into them until his fingers felt as numb as the whole that still hung in his stomach. 

“Why did you-“ the boy hung his shoulders, letting one of his hands, red from the cold, tug on a wrinkle in his red and white shirt, “Why would you want to come back to ‘here’.” He whispered, eyes, illuminated by his torch, following the broken movements of his older brother.

Wilber paused, in a moment between memory and silence, every movement, every triumph, defeat, and this is where it had led him, having this conversation, the one where every word made his skin crawl, it really made life feel worth living, huh. 

“I enjoy the view.” He tested one of the wood boards before he slowly made his way onto one of the wayward bridges, rotten wood crunching beneath his boots.

“Don’t- why.. why do you keep...acting like you’ve forgotten everything that’s happened….Will...we are gonna need to talk about things-and I won’t yell at you...I’m- we need to talk about things Will.” His voice strained as he ran down, nearly tripping on, the old cobble stairs.

Will just stood there, till finally the boy caught up, grabbing the sleeve of Wilber's orange sweater, Wilber turned. The bridge swayed dangerously.

“Why, why did you blow it up?”

Wilber in the moment, realized he’d forgotten, about the kid who’d sit out in the beach, building sandcastles out of broken conch shells and rotting seaweed, then kicking them down before any of his brothers got the chance, the kid that had proudly chased him and Techno around with a bow he’d stolen from Phill, before they realized he didn’t have any arrows, the boy who’d followed him off to war.

But L’manburg wasn’t Tommy’s sandcastle, and the nails digging into his arm were not the signal to the end of some sick game of chase, and the war was over. Wasn’t it? Couldn’t he move on? He didn’t want to play this role, to act out some vapid redemption, he wasn’t-  
“I’m...not, sorry, sorry, I don’t, let’s not have this discussion now.” Wilber sighed, pulling his arm out of Tommy’s grasp. 

“But, Will!”

Wilber ascended deeper into the darkness.

“You- what are we gonna do about L’manburg, Drea-.” Tommy stopped, “You.., umm, not Dream….sorry..you blew it up.”

There were moments when Tommy forgot too.

“It’s fine real estate, really!” Tubbo looked a lot different than he had when he’d come to visit him. A lot bolder, brighter even, leading Wilber down the boardwalk, and gesturing to a small cottage that overlooked the market. It was a cozy looking place, smoke spilling out the stubby brick chimney.

“I’m not sure how well it’s going to sell with a crater for a backyard.” Wilber smiled, feeling a breath of cold wind tug on his beanie, waiting for Tubbos confidence to fold, his eyes to fall, for him to stutter and sputter his way out of talking about, ‘it’.

Besides from Tommy, ‘it’ was a bit of an unwelcome discussion, a shadow that lurked through the streets, collecting in the gutters. Sometimes Wilber wondered if he too would be engulfed in that shadow, forever a haunting reminder of all of their nation's failures. 

Tubbo just laughed, “No! Wilber that means it’s got history, wouldn’t you want to own a piece of history?”

History?

“You’ve don't got a house yet, do...you?”

“No, I’ve..I’ve been staying with..” he felt his tongue run dry, “Phil”, he hated that name, it made his organs twist and his eyes start to run..he tightened his hold on his crutches.

“Oh, Phil! He was the one who stabbed you right? Sorry about that.”

I- Will paused, “Tubbo you air headed bastard” he nearly yelled, “you-“ Wilber, instead he simply found himself laughing, if only a little, watching as the boy-his president brightened up, leading him further down into the heart of new l’manburg. 

“So where’s Tommy gone off too?” Wilbur smield, letting his eyes wander around the stalls stalked with various fruits and pastries, his ears catching on the far off tune of a flute -it reminded him, when was the last time he’d played something….? He wasn’t even sure he had his guitar with him back in Pogtopia…

“Something about a Robbery...I think he took Ranboo with him.”

Wilber had met Ranboo. 

“Yeah so..I have these…” The half endermen held his ebony hand to his forehead, his one red eye surveying Wilber curiously, “memory problems...so I write down everything I need to know in this book.” He almost smiled, pulling a leather bound notebook out of his satchel, ‘do not read’ inscribed plainly on the cover.

Wilber had smiled, murmurd something unintelligible, and then waited for their conversation to devolve into the usual host of questions and misconceptions about how L’manburg was founded 

“So..you founded this place.?” 

There it was.

If Wilber was to become a reminder to the old members of L’manburg of their failures then he assumed he would have to simultaneously become the challenge for the new. 

They talked for hours, about how proud Wilber was of his nation when he founded it, about how fiercely he wanted to keep it, all the blood and losses and years he was willing to give to the battlefield for it. Honestly the more he talked about it to Ranboo, the more he didn't mention the animosity he now felt towards his ‘special place’, the more began to feel like the amnesiac.

“Can I live here?” 

“In the sewers?” Tubbo stumbled

“Well you're the one who built a room down here.” Wilber said as he studied the grey stone walls, noticing a few curvatures that could easily be stacked up with books, limping around the floor that could be carved out to make room for a small fireplace, and letting his eyes wander over to the corner where a small bed could be tucked.

“I don’t know...don't all sewers need little rooms...so like you can have a place to sell drugs.”

“Sounds good.” Wilber replied absentmindedly, far more focused on a recently noticed box full of gunpowder sitting on the wall beside the door, next to various other random resources, “what’s that for?” He asked, gesturing vaguely.

“Oh, me and Tommy were collecting it to make some fireworks, there’s always creepers spawning down here.” 

Wilber paused 

“Can I help?”


	3. When you smile I am undone, my son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the fuck is TNT made with gunpowder and...sand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for some misgendering, it’s not purposeful though.

There’s a lot of pressure put on babies to say their first words. And a lot of guessing, and encouraging, and hoping, and waiting...a lot of waiting. 

(“You're in the middle of starting a war and you thought I’d be a good idea to get a girl-fish-thing! Pregnant?”)

Waiting- As you stare into their little black eyes, studying the way their red fur melts into a soft cream around their snout that’s soon to be full of tiny daggers. 

(“Your raising her all on your own?”)

Waiting- as they lead you down by the stream each passing day, ‘maybe mom will be back this time’ they seem to say, dipping their paws into the hazy water. They can swim better than they can walk.

(“The general's daughter huh?”) 

Waiting- as they sit in your arms in a little blue dress, watching as you fill your soldiers hearts with another speech, another plan, another promise. You really promise your men a lot don’t you, freedom, honor, an entire nation, but your kid, you promise them so much more, you promise them the world. 

“Dad?” They were sitting on their bed, the one with those old wood bones that always creaked when the mattress pushed into their rotting insides. They had on their usual black jacket and ebony pants, boots abandoned on the cedar floor, dark eyes looking towards the open window.

(“Dad”-that’s when Wilber stopped waiting) 

“Yes?” Wilber lagged at the door, straightening his suit as he let his eyes glaze over his kids room, the kid he’d raised all on his own, the one he’d carried through trenches, covered the ears of when bombs fell, and led to war dressed in their little crayon suit. It was remarkable really, that there, after every gunshot, every bruise, every whimper, they still sat there. Their eyes were sharper, their fur was bloodied and their teeth had grown, but, it was still them, that fox he’d swore, (standing out by the stream, praying Sally wasn’t really leaving, that he wasn’t really alone) would be his ruin.

Fundy rubbed their sleeve over their wrinkled nose, letting a squeak escape their tightening throat, they looked like they were about to burst into tears, then, rather suddenly, they looked straight up at Wilber, guilt pouring off their fiery coat like water droplets, shaken off after they pulled themself out of the stream after a long day of searching, they never found their mom -but, when Wilber met their tout expression, for the first time in a while, they didn’t seem to be looking for something.  
“I don’t want to be your daughter anymore.”  
Maybe, whatever it was, had been found. 

“I don’t want to be your son anymore” 

“What?”

The rain was hot that night. Sucked up from all the sunbathed rivers, and spat back down in flurries of warm breezes and chortled thunder. Puddles lining the boardwalk, freshly soaked flags drooping as they began to be toyed around with by the croaking wind. 

There’s always something sad about the cold, something distant and alienating, but the heat, Wilber always found so much worse, it smothers you, sweat kissing up against your wounds, breaking down the wall between moments and memories, as every hour sat upon a sun scorched beach and summer night pressed upon against a uncomfortably smoldering campfire comes back to you in an instant.

In the cold of his home down in the sewers, Wilber could press himself up against the concrete wall, and feel blissfully lonely, pretending he was dead...but here, in the burning streets under the acid downpour-

“Will, are you just going to stand there?” His son, he was standing up against the wooden railing, looking down into the crater, swelling with fresh rain. He had on a slightly beaten up jacket, water washing down his face in warm streaks, claws digging into the rail as he started at Wilber with an...an almost dangerous gaze.

“What do you mean?” Wilber paused, pulling his crutches over towards the edges of the platform, looking down at the deep pit, rumbling under the slowly rebuilding city.

Down there used to be the patch of daisies that Niki would go to pick to tie in her pets fur, and the patch of dirt they’d cleared away to set up their battle camp, and the little pool his son had taken his first bath in.

“I don’t want to be your son anymore.” The fox repeated.

Wilber went to respond, felt his chest grow as heavy as lead, then he paused. His son? His own son? He’d never say such a thing, he must have misheard him, his paranoia did return from time, the voices he swore he could hear whisper behind his back, the devious smiles he saw but where never exchanged, “they aren’t traitors” he’d remind himself, comfort himself, till his voice went weak. Sometimes it got so bad he felt like the man in that story with the heart buried beneath the floorboards. “Fundy isn’t a traitor.” He reminded himself, swore to himself, eyes returning to the crater, “but you are.”

He could hear the heart still beating.

“Wilber! I-why don’t you ever listen to me? I don’t want to be your son anymore, I’m thinking of asking Eret to adopt me.”

It sounded like it was beating so loud it would break.

(“You must be proud to be the son of a general.”)

“I’m sorry, Fundy.” Wilber whispered, the rain stung, burning against his exposed face and hands, he felt like he was melting.

“Wh-what?” He’d made him stutter, that was a rare occurrence, Wilber had only heard him stutter a few times before. 

(“I’m trans, dad-I think, I-I want to be your son? Please can I be-“)

“Don’t twist my words, this-“ he smiled, motioning toward the creator, “My unfinished symphony,” he whispered fondly, “is exactly as intended, perfectly unfinished- but, you..” he looked over at the fox, watched as fear, anger and pity rolled around in his drenched fur. “But you, my son, my beautiful...strong son, i promised you this..the world...the world that I tried to destroy…I’m sorry” He ran a hand through his wet hair, “But Fundy?”

“Yes.” The sun was starting to peak against the rim of the storm clouds, light cascading through the tears that were starting to bubble down his red cheeks.

“If you really want to stop..being my son, stop being..” Wilber found himself choking on his words, “Then I will no longer owe you anything, no longer owe you all those...things your family owes…”

“Will…”

“If you really no longer want to be my son…it’s not like- oh..god.” Wilber leaned against the railing, hand rubbing his eyes that were slowly starting to sting with tears, he was shaking, nausea creeping up through his chests as he felt a steady panic set in. His breath going short, the world fading between his fingers. 

Cold. 

He slowly felt himself being pulled into a hug, head being pressed into someone’s shoulder, a paw lying comfortably against his back. A bitter chill running through the streets, the thick overwhelming warmth washing away as a few spots of sunlight started to fall onto the drenched street. 

“L’manburg has weird weather huh?” The fox whispered, Wilber nodded something in agreement between his sobs, “I’m freezing.”

“I like-“ he hiccuped, “the cold.” Wilber mumbled. He felt like he was back on that fateful night, three days after Sally had left, the little fox wrapped up in his arms, an old shirt as a blanket. Standing in that thick summer storm, looking into the dark water. 

(“You're going to drag a child into this? I know where on different sides in all this, but some real advice, take her down to the stream, tell her how much your love her, and push her head down till she stops squirming.”) 

“I love you.” He whispered, feeling the fox tightening his grip on his sweater, then burying his snout into his fathers chest. 

“For what...you did..I don’t forgive you.” 

“I'm proud. A good citizen of l’manburg never would.” 

“But.” The fox pushed himself out of the hug, grabbing Wilber by the shoulders, and just stood there for a second, that searching look returning to his eyes, as he scrutinized Wilbers face, then he sighed, letting a lazy smile prick at the edges of his lips, “I..guess though..maybe not right now, but you could one day be my father again..”

“Are you fucking pitying me? Do you feel bad for the poor old man who tried to blow up your home?” Wilber laughed, the rain had stopped, but a few drops were still falling off his chin, joining the miniature waterways forming between the wood boards that made up the walkway. “Does my whittle son feel bad for his war criminal father?” Wilber laughed, still sniffling slightly.

“Maybe a little.” The fox grinned.

He could feel his spine on the edge of splintering, back  
pressed up against hard wood and drywall, fingers tightening around the scuff of his shirt, knuckles digging into his chest as the fist tightened. Quackity was more spirited then Wilber had first taken him to be, his cold steel eyes tearing into Wilbers nonchalant smile. The boy in the blue sweatshirt was fumaing, nearly going to slam Wilber back up against the wall -before Tubbo walked in.

“Quackity, what are you…” Tubbo hadn't bothered to put on his uniform yet, his meeting with the cabinet wasn’t for another hour, so there he stood, there president, dressed in some jeans and a yellow shirt with with a black bee in the corner, his blond hair unkempt and forlorn, wearing an awkwardly naive smile, god..Wilber went a little limper in Quackity’s grasp, he was looked so young, he was too young.. to young for war..for presidency...

“I’m tired of this! I’m tired of you-eer us just letting people push l’manburg around!” His hissed, Wilber just grinned, “Dream, the guy your discussing peace treaties with, he’s been trying to destroy l’manburg since the start! And Techno, the one who spawned literal withers, he’s just out there somewhere! And-“ he fumbled, before letting go of Wilbers sweater, the ex-president stumbling to the floor.

“He literally blew this place to the ground, and you let him stay here..I get he’s the founder and all..but….I’m ...just tired.” He took a moment to stare down at Wilber, he looked a bit pathetic, breathes sputtering, hands clutching his stomach, eyes watery. He sighed, hand smoothing out the bridge of his nose, “Where is the justice Tubbo?”

“Oh…” Tubbo looked at the floor, rubbing the side of his arm nervously. Serious, this was serious, Tubbo didn’t like ‘Serious’, made you wonder why he’d agreed to fight in a war? Maybe even he didn’t know. “Quackity, as a member of the cabinet, I want you to know your input is very important to me, but..we can’t exile him...that’s..that would make us just like Jschlatt!”

“But, we can’t just let him walk free!” Quackity argued.

Wilber just watched. Honestly, he couldn’t care less. People had started deciding what was best for his nation without him long ago, you just get used to it eventually. Some days he even started to wander if it was even his nation anymore, it had the same name of course, the same old faces, the song, but...it felt different, a imposter perhaps. As he’d said in the button room, ‘There WAS a special place’ he looked up at the two still going back and forth, he’d stopped listening. That place definitely wasn’t here anymore.

“Tubbo, Quackity, it's Dream, he-.” It was Nicki, she took a second to breath, leaning against the doorway. “He’s...he’s building a wall around l’manburg.” She finished, holding a hand to her heart as she tried to calm herself down.

“What!” “What?” Tubbo and Quackity said in unison.

So..Tommy burned down George’s house. Wilber would have found that pretty funny if everyone wasn’t making such a fuss over it. He’d slipped a “Destruction just runs in the family I guess.” When he came to stop by Tubbo’s meeting with the cabinet, in return Tubbo had promptly asked him to leave. Yeesh.

Honestly Wilber even kind of liked the obsidian walls, they reminded him of the old ones (the ones his son tore down). “You missed them too?” He’d asked Dream as he laid down the dark stone, Dream had simply smiled, the kind of smile you give an old friend, and continued on his work. 

And Wilber just sat there, in the warm grass, watching as walls stretched father off into the cloudy distance. It was one of the most pleasant afternoons he’d had in awhile.

Then Tommy joined him.

He looked almost like he’d been crying, or maybe yelling, maybe both, all red in the face. He just sort of sat there, knees hugged up to his chest, biting his lip, Wilber wondered if he was expecting him to say something, too comfort him like he used to after he’d had a bad dream, or to inspire him when they’d fought together, or even to belittle him like those cold nights they’d shared in exile. Wilber instead, did nothing.

Finally “Tubbo said that he didn’t know why he thought it would be good to make me his Vice President..” 

Wilber just laughed, “Well i've told Tubbo multiple times I don’t know why I thought making him president was a good idea but you don’t see him moping around.”

“Will!” Tommy yelled, “Your...you're supposed to say something nice…” Tommy faltered, looking at the patches of purple flowers that sprouted out of clusters of clovers before groaning, hands covering his eyes as he laid back in the tall grass.

“I’m just being honest.” Wilber smirked, looking over as Tommy pulled his hands from his eyes away ever so slightly so he could shoot his brother a glare “So Tubbo thinks you're a bad vp hmmm?”

“Yeah.”

“Then just quit, he won’t be able to survive without you and then he’ll realize his mistake.” 

“Sorry Wilber..”Tommy flung his arms behind his head, hands grabbing clumps of fresh grass, “I don’t just leave my country behind because things get tough.”

“Ouch.” 

It was a familiar room. The song, though eroided, still emblazoned on the thick diorite and old stone walls, dust and decay carpeting the floor, vines and mushrooms growing on the walls and ceiling, there was even a small stream running through the floor, water must have been getting through some of the cracks in the plaster used to cover the place up.

There in the center, a few bags of sand, a couple boxes of gunpowder, and some redstone wires. They were placed almost ritualistically, like they were part of some sort of summoning circle. Maybe they were, I mean, Wilber sure as hell didn’t feel like the paranoid traitor who’d build this place. 

(“Phill, kill me!”)

He took a seat, bringing his guitar close to his chest, slowly strumming, murrmering the words to himself. He played for what felt like hours, till his fingers were numb and bruised, a few globs of tears staining his shirt. He rubbed his eyes, face being smeared with the gunpowder that had stained his hands as he had carried the box over. Did he really want this?

He of course, didn’t have time to ruminate on that thought as the next thing he new-

“Fuck, Wilber.” Quackity exhaled.


	4. “...Everyone who’s cared about L’manburg turned insane”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inapendence or death!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late for updating? Who’s she? Never heard of her.

“Quackity…” Wilber said begrudgingly, hanging his shoulders, letting a few curses slip between his clenched teeth, the former Vice President was hunched up on the floor of Pogtopia, wrapped in the blanket from the sleeping bag they’d lent him, messily rubbing his hands across his face. A few tears were still slipping between his shaking fingers and rolling across his steadily red hued face. There was a beer bottle cradled loosely to his chest, even though, strangely enough, the avid nudist didn’t drink.

“He never fucking listened to me Wilber..” He whispered, pulling on the blanket that was starting to slip over his shoulders. He...he was a mess. Hands stained with dust, gravel, cheeks rubbed raw, hair tangled from how many times he’d anxiously ran his hands through it, and there was a tear in his pants opening into a bloody cut on his knee. “It….and I was the reason, I was the reason he even got to be the damm president.” Quackity hiccuped.

“But no! It’s all, ‘gotta work on that ass Quackity’ and ‘You…’ and I just- he never took any of my input, he never listened Wilber..” This was one of the few moments Wilber had to think. Destroy l’manburg, just press the button, lay the tnt, it was all so easy, so simple, so thoughtless, but...this, here at his feet one of the men he would have killed without a second thought, was balling his eyes out, he was so real.

L’manburg wasn’t really an abstract concept, it wasn’t just his ‘unfinished symphony’, it wasn’t a way to get out his internal angst over ‘losing’ his son, it was his friends, and his people, and his home, and it was real-

Maybe that would make seeing it raised to dust all the more satisfying.

Wilber took a seat a few paces away from Quackity, he had never been very good at comforting people, he only really had subtle looks and maybe a hug for when Tommy had a nightmare, and little ‘I still love you’s’ for his fox son, and neither of those seemed like they’d be too effective at the moment. Where the hell was Techno, he was always good at this stuff, he’d stare around awkwardly for a second, then give whoever it was a good kick in the shins and tell them go do something productive.

“Maybe that’s why I didn’t trust democracy.” 

“What-!” Quackity sounded like he’d nearly choked, spinning around to look directly into Wilber eyes, letting himself share for a moment, in the gaze of a madman.

“You can’t trust other people, Quackity. Jschlatt doesn’t listen to you because he doesn’t have to, people didn’t vote for me because they didn’t think they needed to, you can’t trust other people to know what’s good for them, only- you can only trust yourself.” Wilber pulled himself to his feet, pulling his beanie off so that his hair fell out into entangled swirls. 

“Is...blowing it up ‘good for them’ huh? Do you really think that Wilber? “

“It’s become a fucking tyranny Quackity! You know, what we were trying to escape when we built the damn place!”? Wilber snapped back, it was a weak retort though, the pressure in his voice wavering, he hated it, it made him feel like a child, he felt like he was pushing Philzas away wings after his third attempt at getting his kid to calm the fuck down, he felt like he’d broken his guitar strings reading the tuning manual wrong...

he’d- he’d really lost it all hadn’t he...l’manburg, his friends, and now himself...

Quackity snatched a tissue from the box Tommy had given him earlier, and pulled it across his face, then with a sigh, he popped the cap of the bottle of bear, a pungent foam pouring down the gleaming brown glass, “Wilber...Jshlatt is a piece of shit, but if anyone is creating a tyranny it’s you. We can...we can take it back..but not that like...that.” He took a swig of the sharp liquid, breaking into a small coughing fit. Quackity didn’t drink. 

“This is why I let you run Quackity.” Wilber said, a smile twitching at the curve of his lip. He closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of the cave, the winter wind roaring outside.

“...what?” Quackity sputtered, alcohol and tears were catching on his chin. 

Wilber spread out his arms gesturing nonspecifically around the cave, “This is why I let you run after we closed the ballet.” He explained, starting to pace, old boots crunching over stone and broken glass littering the ground. “You and and Tommy both, your always so close..you fucking won the vote! But you're just never willing to seize it, power it’s all right in front of you, but nope, there’s always something-something in your way. That’s why I let you run, because I knew….you never had it in you to stand in my way ” He laughed, falling back into a slouch against the rock walls, holding a hand over his forehead, looking at Quackity with a smile, “Your cowards all of you.”

Wilber slid till he was curled up against the cold stone, knees pulled to his chest, “Is that why your here Quackity, realized it was stupid of you to run after I told you not to, have you come crying back?” 

Tubbo was considering exiling Tubbo. There were a million reasons why that didn’t make sense, and the more Wilber thought about it, pacing outside the Caravan where the cabinet was meeting, the more reasons he could think of. 

“I found him in the street in a box, can I keep him?” Tommy had asked, on that strangely bright winter morning. The boy in question, underdressed in overalls, one strap hanging over his shoulder, his golden blonde hair iced in a recent glaze of snow, blue eyes looking around owlishly. Tommy was pulling him by the wrist, taking a break from pouting at Phill every so often to stare back at the rather pitiful looking kid.

“He can sleep on the extra mattress, and I’ll share half my food with him, and I’ll even watch him... make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble, and I’ll.. just please?” Tommy had pleaded, “come on bitch!”

Phill was just stunned. “Uhh.” He pushed past Tommy, kneeling down to stare into Tubbos eyes, “Where did you come from mate?” He’d asked, gently pulling the denim strap back over his shoulder, they were clearly a bit too big for him.

“I’m from...I’m not really sure…” He smiled awkwardly, looking back over at Tommy, who just shrugged sympathetically. 

“You can’t stay here!...” Wilber could hear Tubbo yell as he continued to pace, “If your...if you're just going to be a liability… you burned down George’s house!” Wilber sighed, leaning against the trailer. This was a mess.

“Oh..well..Tubbo have you started noticing any..uhh horns growing out of your head lately, cause..your starting to sound like Jschlatt!” 

That was it, Wilber had had enough, he pushed his hair back, adjusted his sweater, and burst right through the caravan door. 

Everyone went dead silent as the door slammed open. 

He took a breath.

“My friends, countrymen…” Wilber paused, looking over at Tommy, he was fuming, hands balled up into fits, his face a deep shade of crimson, eyes all wet and puffy. “Revolutionaries..” he paused, taking in the room, Tubbo was standing off in the corner, fiddling with a strand of hair, looking at the floor, his son was sat up on the table, like Wilber had always told him not to, looking on curiously, and then there was Quackity...it probably wasn’t accurate to call it a glare...but it definitely had a bit more of a bite to it then a frown..

“What are you doing?” Wilber urged, the cabinet members just looked away awkwardly, this was diffrent, Wilber usually found himself kicked out of these kinds of meetings, sometimes even with a ‘I’m not sure if you're well enough Wilber’, this...this was a new record. “You think I founded this... shit hole of a nation for you to pull this crap? Exile Tommy? You're going to exile your best friend..because some green...boy wants you too?” 

Tubbo went to respond, but his words seemed to get stuck in his mouth, he just crossed his arms and slouched against the wall, a few curls hanging over his face. 

“Wilber…Tubbo I’m sorry..” Tommy was crying, “I.it’s ok..you can exile me..I don’t want to-“ Tommy walked over, reaching out his hand to take Tubbos before pulling it back looking down at his feet.

“No Tommy shut up!” Wilber barked, stepping between the two and taking them both by the shoulders, they both looked at him, a little startled. “If that green bastard wants to take Tommy, we don’t fucking give him Tommy, we do what revolutionary’s do and fight!” He looked around frantically “Where are the men I founded this place with?” He shot Quackity a glance, “Where’s the man that beat me in the election?”

“I’m-if Tubbo is..I’m with you Wilber…” Tommy mumbled, and Wilber fell apart. He was back here, back in this dumb caravan, saying the same speech, insiteing the same war...mabye l’manburg really had fallen that fateful day, but here it was, starting all over again. 

“I agree with Tommy.” Fundy said, sliding down from off the counter, and walking over to stand with Wilber, his ears flexing down the back of his head, ruby fur prickling with anticipation. “If Tubbo is.” He seceded, tilting his head over at his strangely silent president.

“-I’ll let you know I’ll never be ‘with you’ Wilber...but..” Quackity said as he ran a hand through his ravine black hair, expression softening, “if this is what’s best for the nation, if this means we finally get to give Dream a piece of our minds, count me in..” he paused, “Tubbo?”

Tubbo had waited, he’d grieved, he’d accepted, and he had come to terms that the Wilber who had led their battle for their independence, was gone.  
But as he looked around at all his cabinet members, friends, rallied together like it was the revolution all over again, he couldn’t help but wonder if that said Wilbers ghost, had come to haunt this traitor's body. 

“I’m with you Wilber.” He smiled sheepishly.


	5. A hole in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t write this to buy time for writing the finale. No, I would never.

The night out on the dock was comfortably cold. Splinters of ice sifting through the sun baked water, a few fish darting around in the shadows and mud blackened reeds. Wilber boots were hung over the old wood planks, the tips of his boots skimming the lake, hands wrapped up protectively around his chest.

His breath hitched as the summer evening wind caught in his throat, it was sweet like rolling out the old boat, the muddy water splashing up leaving stains on Tommy’s tan pants, “you always burn them Techno.” Tubbo would mumble And Wilbers marshmallow would melt off his stick and tumble into the embers, and it would all be alright. Wilber missed camping, almost as much as he missed being part of a family.

“You stabbed me Phil.” Wilber muttered, finally acknowledging the figure standing, rather imposingly, behind him. The figure stuttered, scuffing its feet on the wood before, finally taking a seat, letting his hair loll back in the brittle breeze.

“I..did.” He laughed awkwardly, it was a habit of his, whenever he was uncomfortable or nervous he’d break into a snicker.

“Phill...was I a bad person?” Wilber whispered, pushing some hair behind his ear, studying their reflections in the waves.

“Wilber, do you think the moon's just a whole in the sky?” 

“What?” Wilber spluttered, eyes snapping up to meet Phil’s cold, blue, soft gaze.

“The sky’s dark right?” He adjusted his cap so that his face was caught in the subtle starlight, “But if you look..” he pointed to the moon. “You can see that there’s a crack, and past all that darkness it’s pretty darn bright.”

“I guess.” Wilber whispered, then he felt one of Phil’s wings extend, the inky black feathers (still a little rough, they were not finished healing from getting caught in the explosion) curling around his back. 

“You ready to go to war?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t believe their letting me-“ 

“Can you wear armor this time? For me?”

“I’ll think about it.”


	6. He kindly stopped for me-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “De..ath?” Wilber asked or rather stuttered, not even bothering to turn to see who was speaking to him.
> 
> “Already tried that one..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who’s left kudos or comments, or just been fallowing along! Glad to get back into the fan-fiction scene. Hope you enjoy this sweet, and happy ending to this little fic.

“So commander Tubbo? What’s the plan?”

“Oh...ummm.” Tubbo fumbled, as he tended to while in positions of authority, looking down at the maps and notes piled up on the caravan counter, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. Then taking a look over at Tommy, who was sulking in the corner, he sighed, “We fight Dream.” He said breaking into a short smile.

“But...Tommy’s the reason we got into this mess.” Niki voiced, looking around worriedly, earning a few grumbles of agreement from the group.

“But Tommy’s a child.” Wilber stated, looking at the group, everyone was gathered uneasily, Fundy sat up on the table studying the zipper of his jacket, Tubbo comforting Tommy who was off to the side looking decently miserable, and Quackity was-

Then Ranboo walked in. Book under his arm, face pursed and eyes gleaming with worry. He looked like hadn’t slept the past day or even days, his usual suit seemingly thrown on. He greeted everyone with a nod and a few muffled hellos before making his way to the middle of the group, it really was pretty cramped, everyone crammed in the old caravan.

“-I..what are we doing?” Ranboo squeaked, looking around anxiously. 

“We’re planning a strategy to fight Dream.” Tommy suddenly spoke up, looking around at the room full of mixed faces, “And, I know I kind of got us into this..but it was about the discs okay? That’s what all of this is, it’s about the discs, and..I-“

Rnaboo cut him off, “Why is Phill under house arrest?”

“What?” Wilber spoke up, looking up from the map he had been studying, eyes snapping over to lock with Tubbos. The president looked at his shoes, then taking in a breath, gave Ranboo a firm frown, “Phill is under house arrest for working with Technoblade..who is...a uh..enemy, an enemy of the nation” Tubbo said, with as much authority as he could muster, hands folding into fists.

“Just how Dream! Not Tommy, but Dream is an enemy of the nation! He has blown up l’manburg countless times before, and he will countless times over. Even if..even if we exiled Tommy, I don’t see why that would stop the bloodshed.” Tubbo surmised. “That’s why we have to fight Dream.”

-“So we can get justice. So that l’manburg isn’t just something people can push around.” Quackity added.

Wilber adjusted his beanie before softly jutting in, sounding a bit perplexed, “Phil’s..under house arrest?” He had been spending so much time coaching Tubbo on how to declare war on Dream, on what they needed to prepare, on battle strategy..he really hadn’t been paying much attention to what had been going in l’manburg. House arrest? That didn’t sound very much like...like l’manburg. Their nation was built on the concept of freedom after all...wasn’t it?

“Tubbo, I want to help you as best I can...but Techno and Phill..their my friends.” Ranboo mumbled, flipping through his memory book nervously. 

“Ranboo! But Techno literally spawned Withers! And he will do it again! Don’t you have any loyalty?” Quackity cut in, slamming a fist on the table.

“I do...I do have loyalty.” Ranboo stutterd, “I have loyalty to people..not countries..” he finished, before leaving in a cloud of ‘excuse me’s’ and the soft lock of the caravan door. 

“Is anyone else here loyal to the guy who literally wants to blow this place up?” Quackity growled.

“I’m not loyal to Tommy!” Niki replied, Fundy agreeing with a firm nod.

“This isn’t about Tommy!” Tubbo yelled, and the room fell silent. “It’s about Dream who’s coming to destroy l’manburg in the next 24 hours! And what are we going to do about that?” 

“Wilber?” Tommy found Wilber sprawled out on his bed, tucked away in his room in the sewer, plans and maps tossed about on the floor, gaze pinned restlessly to the ceiling. 

It was dark out, the soft night air falling down to his home beneath the city, softly lulling his fuming mind. 

“What is it Tommy?” Wilber half yawned, sitting up as he wrapped his blanket over his shoulders, looking at his brother with a tired frown, reading glasses fallen to the tip of his nose. 10 more hours, 10 more hours and Dream would be here, 10 more hours and they’d have to fight for their lives all over again. Why was this happening again, Wilber swore when that sword tore through his abdomen, he’d given up fighting.

Tommy paced for a second, he must have been thinking about something Wilber presumed, he would always pace when he got to really thinking about something, or, he’d mope, lay in the corner glaring at anyone who dared disturb him, it was a bit of an ether or. Then, the Vice President let out a loud, bit over dramatized sigh, and took a seat at the foot of his brother's bed. 

“Wilber? Why did you blow up l’manburg.”

The nerve. Wilber wanted to explode. He was staying up, losing his mind planning out Tommy’s stupid war because Tommy had been stupid enough to burn down George’s house...and he wanted to have this talk now? Thought Wilber was ready to have this talk now? At the same time, he always wanted to cry.

“Because I thought it...it was already gone… it wasn’t… it was a tyranny.” He sighed, cupping his face in his hands, letting his shoulders untense. He was exhausted. 

“But, what about all of us.” Tommy pressed, “You could have killed us all? Did...Wilber did you want that?” 

“I was mad.. I was insane.. Tommy.” Wilber pleaded, head flying up as he gestured around wildly, “I just needed...I needed l’manburg, I needed it all to stop!”

“If you were mad Wilber..I… you're joining us in battle Will...how do I know you're not still…” Then, despite at least a bit of protests, Tommy found himself pulled into a short hug, 

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Wilber frowned, feeling his eyes grow heavy as the lack and sleep and the world that was on the verge of falling apart started to mix together, “I’m sorry Tommy, I never wanted to hurt you. ...And even if..you're still sometimes a foolish child...I’m proud of you.” 

“Thank you, Wilber.” Tommy mumbled. 

The light blared through the cloudy curtains cutting down the cascading mountains, packed with blazen redwoods, wind uplifting the spring leaves, burnt from the summer sun, blowing amongst the young the buildings. Wilbers pace quickened, shoes scuffing against the lichen lined boards, war weathered beanie pushed down over the rim of his hair. 

Arriving at the center of town, he could see Tubbo up at his podium, a brooding Tommy slumped at his side. That was probably the first time in awhile L’manburg felt….alive. Fish leaping out of the river now filling the entrenching crater, people busy in the square, a parliament of owls crowding on rooftops of market vendors.

Wilber smiled, quietly taking his place at the back of the crowd. Slowly he noticed Tubbo had stood up, lightly tapping the microphone as he looked out into the crowd, he mumbled something to Tommy, who rolled his eyes, getting to his feet, turning his gaze to the floor, he was in a mood. “So...I once said, in a speech...ordered by a dictator..that l’manburg was a lettuce...and the thing about lettuces...is that rabbits like to come and eat them.” Tubbo coughed, wiping his sleeve over his face, “But, there are farmers who protect the lettuce..and I guess that we are those farmers.. we need to protect our lettuce.” Tubbo finished falling into an awkward smile. “So, that’s what we will be doing today.” 

“-Also, I thought, that since..in honor of Wilbur… who’s sort of spurred this whole thing..” Tubbo, pulled off his dark blue jacket to reveal the gold shoulder pads of his revolutionary suit. “What do you say? We once again don the suits?” Tubbo smield, as he got off his podium to join in the bustle and cheers of the crowd.

Wilber just stood to the side, almost like a ghost, peacefully at ease as the world continued in motion. ‘Spurred this whole thing’? Hardly he scoffed to himself, this..this was all them, this wasn’t his l’manburg after all, it was theirs, instead it was his resting place, his gravestone. 

“Wilber?” It was Tubbo, pushing his way through the crowd. He was wrapped in dark blue, gold sash hanging crookedly over his white shirt, black cap tipped over his beech blond hair. He grinned when Wilber registered his greeting, pushing his bangs out of face and flocking to his ex-president's side. “You made me president.” He said, taking a second to catch his breath, “And I'd like to make you the commander of this army.”

“What?” Wilber said, his frown falling slightly open as he stared at Tubbo with utter confusion.

“You’ve been studying the battle plans Wilber. It seems to only make sense that you should lead us.”

“But I’m old and frail, and a traitor!?”

“Come on Wilber, you're a great leader.” 

“You're such a follower Tubbo.” Wilber taunted, still a little bemused.

“I know. But, this is on my orders.”

“Alright, president.”

Dream walked into l’manburg like it was just any other day, his walk slow and casual, bone white mask covering his devilish grin and gleaming emerald eyes, sneakers sliding across the creaking wood boards, finally, with a few of his men following behind, he met with the revolutionary’s, right there in the center of town, weapons drawn, faces red from the heat, and body’s tense.

“Tubbo!” Dream yelled, hand adjusting its grip around his axe, “I have given you ample time to make the right choice and exile Tommy, but you have not conceded, therefore we have no choice but to end our era of peace with l’manburg. You brought this on yourselves..but...” 

He paused, looking around, taking in the scenery of a nation built out of hopes and blemishes, rising out of a crador of its own design, Dream wasn’t sure if it was impressive or pitiful.

“If you right here, right now, will agree to exile Tommy, we may..” he fixed his mask that was slowly starting to slip down his face, “may be able to keep your country from being raised down to bedrock.”

There was a beat of silence, then, someone began pushing their way to the front of the troop, Wilber dressed in his freshly pressed blue coat, a few stains of blood still slightly visible against the wooly fabric, pushed past Tubbo, taking a step dangerously close to Dream, “You green, lizard..man..” he swore, pointing his sword accusingly.

“Ah, Wilber, was it not enough tnt?” Dream smiled, watching as the revolutionary folded, then picked himself back up, pushing his sword close enough that it was an inch from slashing a line right through his mask.

“Fuck you Dream, get the fuck out of…” he looked at the crowed, “...our l’manburg.”

The war was over in seconds. Their scuffle with Dream had been enough time for Techno and Phill to start on the obsidian structure that soon covered the sky like a deep black scare, explosives starting to rain down, bursting into buildings and markets, potion effects and smoke turning the day into a grey haze.

The revolutionaries tried to regroup, to fight back, but they mostly ended up getting caught up in the chaos lost into the decay of the very place they called home.

Wilber barely had time to the face the fact that his dad, the one who had nursed him to help, wished him well in the fight, stabbed in the stomach for betraying his nation, was now blowing up the very same place. he only got a passing glance as well, of his green bucket hat, hand stopping it from blowing away as he stood up on one of the obsidian towers.

Finally, Wilber just realized he lost, just standing there, in the middle of l’manburg’s doomsday. 

The ashy fumes spore up from the scorched ground, dulling Wilbers senses and filling his mind, like hot smoke gathering in a burning building. Gravel and dust smothering his revolutionary uniform blood staining the ruffle around his neck.

He broke into a fit of rough coughs, hand sloppily gripping onto the fabric over his heart, feeling his legs start to tremble, his eyes stinging and wet. How could this, he stumbled to his knees, be what he had wanted? He rubbed his sleeve across his face, tears staining the cuff of his jacket, how could this have been his victory? He looked down at his crossbow, ‘chekhov's gun’ he’d named it, madly scrawled into the slender wood, only a month or so ago, this would have been his good ending, this would have been his….this is what he wanted?

He cradled his chest, struggling to breath, the air thick, throat threatening to shatter as he continued to cough up gunpowder and dirt. Tears were freely falling down his face now-

(“Wilber...why don’t you ever cry?” Tommy whispered, sneaking a glance out of the fortress of his legs and hands he’d buried his face in. The boy had just gotten his first real taste of blood, slashing up his leg on the face of sharp rock. 

“I just don’t like anyone to see.” Wilber smiled wistfully, reaching over to put a comforting hand on his younger brothers shoulder, looking up at the surrounding forest, burry thickets bursting out of clusters of wild grass and pine needles, rocks jutting out dangerously around the mud path and trees stretching up into the powdery white clouds. 

“I don’t either…” Tommy sniffed, wiping a tear with the back of his hand, looking away, a bit embarrassed. “What are you looking at? Bitch…”)

Sliding down his cheeks, mixing in with blood and mud and falling from his chin, landing in the ground, covered in smashed wood from the remains of L’manburg and black rocks that had fallen from the obsidian structure that loomed overhead, carving out deep shadows into the sore earth and continuing to dump bundles of explosives into the crater he used to have the audacity to call a ‘special place’.

Wilber now could no longer understand why he was still here, sobbing in a muddy pit he still couldn’t help but call his home, for he was certain he could name three distinct moments he’d already died. 

The first had been back when he lost the election, when he watched Jschlatt’s ram like hand grasp that microphone, spit into it with his breath that always smelled sharply of beer or wine, when he spoke those few words that tore Wilber world right from beneath his feet and through it right back on top of him, crushing him, till he couldn’t even remember why he’d founded that stupid nation in the first place.

The second had been right after he’d pressed the button. Even before his father had rammed him in with his own sword, no, Phill had stabbed a corpse. After all, the Wilber that had a father who cared for him, brothers he loved and friends who fought for him and a nation...a nation he built, had exploded as soon as his fist met with that cold wood. 

And only a few minutes ago was his third, looking up at Dream, hearing his footsteps ringing across the obsidian, his smile slightly visible beneath the rim of his mask. Feeling everything he fought for like dust running between his fingers. 

Then, at the edge of his fading vision, he caught a glimpse of his son, and was sure he then died a fourth.

(Fundy looked so big the day they set out to go to war. His pink and blue jacket bright against the white, cloudy sky, golden buttons blinking in the comforting sunlight, red fur combed back, neatly pruned tail swishing in the bold wind. And he had this look to him, a maturity in his cool, dark gaze. 

“My son..one day...” Wilber smiled, loading an arrow into his crossbow, “This will all be yours..” he said fondly, following the foxes gaze as he studied the way the light rolled over the foreboding mountains, passing through the clumps of forest full bold red trunks and whispering emerald leaves. 

“I’ll make you proud.” He grinned, pushing his jagged teeth up against the edges of his smile, his ears perking up defiantly. Then, with a quick nod, he pushed his way up through the crowd of soldiers to join Tommy at the head of the troop.)

Fundys claws were gripped tightly around a torch, the fire burning dangerously close to his whiskers, ears peeled back, mouth slightly ajar as a few whimpers escaped from under his lolled tongue. He was standing a few paces from the l’mantree, Niki was at his side, her pick swinging at the obsidian casing surrounding the old oak.

Fundys eyes then met Wilbers, right as the canidae flung the torch into the heart of the tree's branches, the dry wood bursting into flames, twigs snapping and falling into ash on the bruised ground.

And-

There at an impasse, they stood, the father of a traitor and the ghost of his son.

Then Fundy started yelling, shouting from where he stood across the crater, voice ringing over the sound of bombs and gunshots, “I’m tired of fighting over the same land! For what? For nothing Wilber! It nearly-this stupid piece of dirt nearly took you and everyone away? What is the point Wilber? I’m not going to let you destroy yourself over nothing! I-“

He stopped listening.

Wilber shielded his arms around his chest, hands digging into his side, head lowered as his hair fell over over his face, tears seeming to dig burning red lines down his face, and that numbness, the one that used to hang in the pit of his stomach, it reawakened, offering him the sweet words and the comforting silence it did in those days he lay bedridden, hours spent in silence as he watched the rebuilding of his country, the emptiness was back, swallowing him up by the second.

And he welcomed it, he had died, he wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. (“Three lives” Phil had smiled, as he led his kid through groves of roses and lowly daisy’s, “then that’s it, use them wisely”.) And Wilber laughed, ‘wise?’ He had been anything but wise. But did it matter anymore? Do people think about their lives after their death? Is there a point? It’s all over anyways, there’s nothing you can do.

Wilber felt sick, he almost wanted to throw up, grinding his fists into the burning, shaking ground to keep himself from passing out, his breathes cutting like razors down his throat… but even in the mix of all that, the eye of the storm, he still had a little life left in him to hear a soft, ghostly voice whisper behind him 

“Can’t kill it, can’t fix it,....what’s left?” 

“De..ath?” Wilber asked or rather stuttered, not even bothering to turn to see who was speaking to him.

“Already tried that one..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tying up loose ends? Completing character arcs? I don’t even know what that is?
> 
> Ok, but in all seriousness, thank you so much for reading!


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